Our first resolution was to pass a month in this beautiful region.  Pointing to a building that stood a thousand feet below us, on a little grassy knoll that was washed by the lake, and which had the quaint appearance of a tiny chateau of the middle ages, we claimed it, at once, as the very spot suited for the temporary residence of your scenery-hunters.  We all agreed that nothing could possibly suit us better, and we went down the descent, among vineyards and cottages, not building “castles in the air,” but peopling one in a valley.  It was determined to dwell in that house, if it could be had for love or money, or the thing was at all practicable.

It was still early when we reached the inn in Vevey, and I was scarcely on the ground, before I commenced the necessary inquiries about the little chateauish house.  As is usual in some parts of Europe, I was immediately referred to a female commissionnaire, a sort of domestic broker of all-work.  This woman supplies travelling families with linen, and, at need, with plate; and she could greatly facilitate matters, by knowing where and to whom to apply for all that was required; an improvement in the division of labour that may cause you to smile, but which is extremely useful, and, on the whole, like all division of labour, economical.

The commissionnaire informed us that there were an unusual number of furnished houses to be let, in the neighbourhood, the recent political movements having driven away their ordinary occupants, the English and Russians.  Some of the proprietors, however, might object to the shortness of the time that we could propose for (a month), as it was customary to let the residences by the year.  There was nothing like trying, however, and, ordering dinner to be ready against our return, we took a carriage and drove along the lake-shore as far as Clarens, so renowned in the pages of Rousseau.  I ought, however, to premise that I would not budge a foot, until the woman assured me, over and over, that the little antiquated edifice, under the mountain, which had actually been a sort of chateau, was not at all habitable for a genteel family, but had degenerated to a mere coarse farm-house, which, in this country, like “love in a cottage,” does better in idea than in the reality.  We gave up our “castle under the hill” with reluctance, and proceeded to Clarens, where a spacious, unshaded building, without a spark of poetry about it, was first shown us.  This was refused, incontinently.  We then tried one or two more, until the shades of night overtook us.  At one place the proprietor was chasing a cow through an orchard, and, probably a little heated with his exercise, he rudely repelled the application of the commissionnaire, by telling her, when he understood the house was wanted for only a month, that he did not keep a maison garnie.  I could not affirm to the contrary, and we returned to the inn discomfited, for the night.